The Lost
by MissAnnThropic
Summary: SamJack What might have happened if The Lost City part II had gone differently. Spoilers for Lost City part I.
1. Chapter One

Title: The Lost  
Author: MissAnnThropic  
Spoilers: The Lost City, part I  
Summary: What might have happened if The Lost City part II had gone differently.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Stargate but my rabid fan behavior. Alas.

"General Hammond?"

George Hammond did not turn to the voice calling his name. Instead he remained with his back the door of the briefing room, staring through the window at the gargantuan stone ring a story below. It was still now, so inert and deceptively harmless. Airmen were clearing debris from the embarkation room, just beginning to turn their eyes to the staff blast burns that pocked the gray walls.

The visitor that had interrupted General Hammond's pensive solitude moved a few steps into the room. Hammond did not have to turn and look upon that young and brilliant face to know exactly the expression it bore. Hammond knew these people too well, as he had come to know all of the men and women under his command, but his closeness to SG-1 was particularly strong. Doctor Jackson would look weary and heartsick, like a child who needed comfort and yet possessed the wisdom of a man who understood none existed.

"General," Daniel whispered again, his tone changed to make his word a sympathetic offering rather than a question. With every facet available to him Daniel emoted, expressed. Hammond was so very fond of that quality about the young man, a trait perhaps of which even he was unaware. Compared to so many hardened and guarded soldiers Hammond had known in his life, Daniel Jackson breathed and bled emotion, everything he did was tinged with what he felt. His hands moved with tenderness, his face spoke of hope, his stride sung of sadness... for those quirks alone Hammond did not have to turn to appraise the archaeologist to know exactly how he would stand, how he would blink, breathe, and hold himself.

Hammond knew all these things about Daniel Jackson, knew just as much about the rest of SG-1, and he often wondered how much each team member knew about each other because they knew one another far better than Hammond knew any of them.

That consideration, that possibility of a wound deeper than he could know, made the current situation that much harder.

Daniel was suddenly at his side, a silently appearing form in blue. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his lips pinched and corners of his eyes tight as he stared down blankly at the stargate. His posture screamed of loss, of regret and anger and the undying hope that would not leave Daniel despite the things he'd done that would have snuffed that spark in a lesser person.

Hammond resisted the urge to reach out and clasp the young man on the shoulder. "You all did well today, Doctor Jackson. I am very proud of all of you."

Daniel tucked his arms closer around himself, his jaw clenching but words conspicuously absent. When Daniel Jackson, the man with a poet's soul, could find nothing to say it was a sign he was the farthest he could be pushed before he cracked, the darkest he could be without completely losing sight of the light.

Hammond continued, "The weapon you and the rest of the SG teams were able to retrieve from the Lost City will save this planet and countless others when we finally implement it against Anubis. You have to remember that."

Daniel looked away, blue eyes skittering as they momentarily raged. He licked his lips and looked down at his boots. "I know, General. We did well."

Hammond had never heard Daniel Jackson praise his own work or efforts, and now that he did there was flat vacancy to his words. Jackson knew it was true intellectually, but he didn't believe it or feel it in those nooks and crannies of Daniel that made him such an emotional, sensitive human being.

Hammond sighed. "I understand, Doctor. Had it been for a cause twice the magnitude of this the sacrifice Colonel O'Neill made would still be a high price."

Daniel flinched. One hand came to his mouth and grazed over his lips, then slid up under his glasses to rub at his eyes. "He was the one that showed us how to find the Lost City, General. Jack was the reason all of this happened and he wasn't even allowed to go on the mission to retrieve the weapon."

Hammond frowned. "He was too far deteriorated by that point to be safe on an off-world mission, Doctor. I couldn't risk the mission on such a vital assignment no matter how much I felt Jack O'Neill should have been there."

Daniel folded his arms again, nodding, "I know... we barely made it back in one piece as it is, if Jack had gone he would have been killed while we were trying to get back to the gate... General... I think he would have rather died that way."

Hammond closed his eyes. "I think you're right. But I hope you can appreciate all the reasons I couldn't let him."

Daniel risked a glance at General Hammond and the older man saw a week of weariness carving years of anguish into a young face. As Jack O'Neill grew worse his team spiraled with him, emotionally and spiritually dying bit by bit with him.

"Any word from the Asgard?" Daniel asked hopefully.

Hammond, for the briefest moment, wanted to put his fist through the bullet-proof glass of the briefing room window. "No. We've been trying, but I don't think... I'm not optimistic that they'll respond in time to save him at this point."

Daniel's gaze dropped, the archaeologist paused, then he unlocked his arms and moved to reach into the breast pocket of his BDUs. "Before Jack... when he could still write he gave me this and made me promise I'd give it to you if the end was... if it looked like he wasn't going to make it." Daniel handed a crinkled and folded piece of yellow stationary to the general. General Hammond took the note and unfolded it with dread, reading the familiar and bittersweet handwriting of Colonel O'Neill. If this was when he was still able to write in English it had to be more than two days old... not since that time had Jack been able to manage any English, spoken or written.

Hammond read the note, but even before he made it through the first sentence he knew what it would say. In the same manner he knew how Daniel would look and move, he knew what Jack would want and for what he would ask. Hammond knew these people too well, considered them friends more than colleagues beyond the ability to remain detached.

"Did you read this?" Hammond asked without looking up.

Daniel nodded as he crossed his arms again. "I think he deserves that much, General. He knows he's dying... let him go home."

General Hammond reread the letter, heart heavy. Jack's scribble was simple and to the point. If he was going to die, he wanted to die in his own home. Hammond could not blame him; if Jack could not die in the field in service of his country he wanted to die in comfortable surroundings. Of course Daniel would be his advocate for that cause; Daniel had been made to die once in the sterile surroundings of the infirmary and would understand the desire to be where some of the fear of death would give way to the peace of the familiar.

Sighing, Hammond folded the letter and held it lightly in his hand. "I shouldn't let him off the base considering the security risk he's become. You and I both know the Ancient knowledge in his brain is altering his judgment.." Hammond looked up to find Daniel just staring at him. Daniel would not accept rationale and logic on this matter, for this his heart and soul had sway. For Daniel Jackson it could be so simple, so black and white that George Hammond envied him believing so certainly that he knew the right thing to do.

Hammond thumbed the rough paper of the letter in his hand, then turned slightly to more squarely face Daniel. "I'll allow it. Colonel O'Neill has contributed more to this program and to the defense of this planet than any other man perhaps save the other members of SG-1. I'll have to post a guard outside his home to make sure he doesn't do anything that would compromise this base or the stargate project, but I agree with you, Doctor Jackson... we owe Jack this much."

Daniel nodded slowly, corners of his mouth tugging down sadly. "Thank you, General."

General Hammond nodded. "You and the rest of SG-1 are off-duty." To Daniel's rising surprise Hammond explained, "I understand that at this moment our best resources are needed more than ever, and that the mastery of this new weapon is paramount, but this once I think you and the others should put your faith in the capable men and women of this facility. We can handle this without you, and quite honestly, SG-1 isn't fit for the scale of combat and focus this battle with Anubis will entail."

"General, Major Carter and–"

Hammond shook his head at the argument, "I'm not suggesting you, Major Carter, and Teal'c can't do the job without being overcome by personal feelings, but the reality is that this will be a fight worse than anything we've yet encountered, and the situation facing SG-1 right now... you are all better off leaving this in the hands of people who aren't being put through the wringer. Each of you are dealing with something that diverts too much of your attention. No one is blaming any of SG-1 for that, it's to be expected when a team becomes as close as SG-1 has over the years. This is a command decision, Doctor Jackson, and I would appreciate it if you would all obey me without protest on this one."

Daniel looked like he wanted to argue further, plead their collective case, but before he could utter a word the wind went out of sail and his frame sagged. He hung his head, defensive stance now slight and frail. Watching their friend slowly die was causing the members of SG-1 to fall apart, everyone else on the base knew that, and it seemed that Daniel Jackson just then realized it, too.

"Yes, sir."

Hammond felt hot bile crawl up to the back of his throat. Only a handful of times had Daniel ever called him 'sir', spoke to him the way a soldier did. Hammond expected it from the military personnel, but when Daniel adopted the same tone, the same behavior, Hammond felt somewhere, somehow, he'd failed.

Daniel silently left the room, probably to take Jack home. Recognition of his team mates seemed to be lasting the longest. Jack was much closer to his team than he'd been the first time this happened to him; when he'd ceased to react with familiarity to Hammond or other regulars on the base, Jack still showed recognition of Teal'c, Daniel, and Sam. They'd become so important to him that even an alien knowledge overriding his brain could not banish them completely from his mind. When Jack seemed to allow all else of who he was to be lost, he'd clung to that. If there was such a thing as mercy, he would still keep that up to the moment that he died. If he remembered his team, his family, he would not die alone.


	2. Chapter Two

Samantha Carter's strides were sluggish and heavy as she made her way toward the front door of Jack O'Neill's home. Daniel had taken him home earlier that day. Jack's last request, his dying wish: to not die in a hospital bed when there was nothing that could be done to save him. Daniel was still waiting for a miracle, for a flash of light as Thor came to the rescue. Sam hoped for that too, hoped for it with all she had, but she had to accept that maybe it wouldn't happen this time.

Sam stopped on the colonel's porch and stood in silence. The new chief medical officer of the SGC seemed to think that Jack was so far gone this time, too damaged by intellect beyond the capacity of his body to contain, that even an Asgard cure at this point would have slim chances of saving him, to say nothing about returning him intact. 'He doesn't have long, Major Carter,' the new doctor had confided to Sam, and she found herself here, at his door.

She cast a look at the car parked across the street, in which sat the military goon sent to keep ghoulish watch over a dying man's house. He would see Sam here, coming to her commanding officer's home late in the evening, but for once she did not care. Jack didn't have long to live and right now that was the only thing that mattered. Sam could hand her career over to Kinsey herself without batting an eyelash because she couldn't leave Jack alone to face this. He thought he wanted to be alone, but Sam knew better than to buy that. Jack didn't truly want to die alone.

Sam knocked on the door, waiting nervously. When there was no movement from within she panicked to think she'd come too late. She reached down to try the doorknob, startled to find it turn and give way under her hand, unlocked. But then, the greatest threat to Jack O'Neill was from inside the house, festering within his own body; if he locked the door he'd just be locking it in with him. The door inched open as she eased closer. There was no sign of life inside as she slipped into the house and gently closed the door behind her.

"Sir?" she called out, looking around the foyer and down the hall. Still no answer.

Sam moved toward the living room, stopping short when she cleared the hallway wall and took in the scene before her. Jack was dressed in jeans and a collared shirt, sitting on the couch, perched on its edge as he bent over the coffee table. Paper was everywhere. Covering every inch of the table, spilling on to the floor, cant awkwardly on the cushions of the couch beside him. Jack's face was intent, his brow knit and lips tight as he scribbled like a man possessed, jotted and scrawled with fury, eyes wild and alien with things he was never meant to know, knowledge burning to be freed by any means available.

Sam stepped toward him and bent down to look at the papers scattered chaotically through the living room. It was in the language of the Ancients, every mark on every page in sight, not a single word Sam could understand.

"Colonel," Sam's voice weakly pleaded.

Jack continued to madly write. He cast a full sheet of paper aside like a bothersome insect and set upon the fresh, blank sheet underneath, pausing just long enough to rub fiercely at his forehead with the heel of his left hand.

Sam moved to his side and sat down on the couch next to him, heedlessly crushing sheets of the precious knowledge beneath her, and reached out to still his hands. "Colonel, stop."

Jack tugged to free his hands from her, manic. "Ego ineo scriabatos scuricaso."

Sam clutched stronger at his hands, felt the anxious drive in his taut muscles as he continued to tug at her hold. "Sir, please, no more. You don't have to give anything more than you have."

Jack tried to pull his hands free again, frantic to keep writing, and when he was held fast by the major he finally looked up at Sam. He was begging her to let him get it out, as though the knowledge could be bled from him and leave him cured for its letting.

If only it could be that easy, a thousand worlds she'd give if he really could heal himself.

Sam felt herself grimace, the preempts to a cry, as she pulled Jack's hands closer to her, imploring him, "Let it go, Jack."

Jack tried to reach for the unfinished sheet, unfinished thought, but abruptly stiffened, resistance waning as his muscles locked unnaturally, without warning. Sam quickly took the pen from his twisted grip then eased him back against the couch as the colonel's face contorted and his eyes glazed and rolled, neck spasming and spine locked. Neurological dysfunctions had set in only within the last twelve hours, but they were getting worse quickly.

Sam shifted closer to him, resting her hand on his chest as he sucked in uneven, strained breaths, arms moving in jerky motions that had no intention, one leg managing to kick the coffee table and send a few sheets of paper precariously perched on the edge sliding to the piles on the floor.

Sam could feel her voice cracking as she soothed, "Let it pass, Colonel. Just breathe with it, it's okay, I'm here.."

The seizure slowly passed and Jack's stiff posture folded and sank into a lax pooling of weight and limbs on the cushions of the couch. His breathing became even gulps for air and his color returned to normal. The daze in his eyes lifted as he stared up at the ceiling, reeling from the aftermath.

Sam tried to calm her racing heart, stomach sick with fear. Every time she wondered if this would be the episode that stole him away, the last attack before he died. Waiting through each bout was a small version of Netu and by far more harrowing.

Sam turned her eyes away, ashamed to be so afraid and sad and utterly helpless all at once. She had come here because he shouldn't crawl away and die alone like an animal, but now she was questioning whether she could give him the kind of comfort and support he would need. She couldn't be strong enough for this, a fact she was realizing too late. It wasn't fair to Colonel O'Neill to make him see her terrified in his last moments.

She startled when she felt a gentle touch on her face. She felt Jack's fingers all but caress her cheek and she looked back at him. She was scared out of her mind to look at him, knowing what he would see when he looked at her, but she couldn't feel him and not respond. He was looking at her, searching silently, brown eyes fathomless. He saw her, all that she was, and tonight that included the bone-chilling terror and sorrow of knowing he would die.

Sam tried to muster a smile but instead failed and bent down to rest her head on his shoulder. It was inappropriate as hell but she didn't care, she needed to touch him, a tactile memory later, a physical comfort now. She felt him beneath her, his body warm, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his figure strong and still betraying competence that no longer existed. She could feel the staccato of his heartbeat in his neck gently rushing against her skin, could smell him all around her, a scent she would never forget no matter how long she might live after him.

Arms descended around her, looping around her at first carefully then drawing her closer. Sam snaked her arms around his torso, hugging him tightly as she closed her eyes. She couldn't come to accept that she was losing him, and yet he was slipping away with every second, his mind shutting down under the overload. She would kill Anubis for this, and when his death did not satisfy her anger she would kill every Goa'uld she came across... for Jack.

"Colonel," she said into his chest, unprepared to pull away from his embrace just yet, "I can't begin to tell you how much you mean to... to so many people, on this world and so many that we've visited in our time with the stargate program. I almost don't care that we have what we need to destroy Anubis, when it means you.." she felt her throat constrict and she shut her eyes tightly, burying her face in her commanding officer's chest. He wouldn't understand her, anyway; he'd stopped responding to English days ago. It was something she needed to say, to know she'd told him.

Jack pulled her away from him. Sam reluctantly let him pry her from him and sat up to face him. He studied her, recognition of who she was still flickering in his eyes beneath the alien intellect when he looked at her, as was the case with Daniel and Teal'c. It was all she could have asked this time when a cure seemed to be hoping for too much... let him remember his friends. The CMO on base speculated Jack's brain might have recognized the invasion of alien knowledge, like an immune system meeting a virus for the second time, and managed to safeguard a small amount of personal memories that Jack O'Neill was desperate not to lose. It was only a guess because no one knew for certain what the colonel did and did not know, but it was a reassuring thought to believe.

Jack's hand rose to her face, brushing at tears Sam hadn't realized she was crying. She ducked her head, beyond thinking she might yet compose herself.

Quite suddenly, like a gently rising tide, his lips were on hers. Without thinking Sam kissed him back, hand coming up to twine her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. After so many years secretly loving each other, never allowed to touch but longing for it so long, their first kiss was almost familiar. There was a natural rightness to their touches, like he had done this to her and she to him before without either knowing it. With the things they'd seen at the SGC, Sam wasn't about to discount that possibility.

Jack stopped, mouth leaving hers, but his hands remained on her face, physical anchors spanning the scant space between them. Sam didn't open her eyes immediately, lingering with the sensations of him he'd left with her.

"Mea auteamus mecoroses," he whispered to her, his fingers moving lightly over her skin like a blind man trying to learn her face.

Sam reached up to take one of his hands in hers. She finally opened her eyes and looked closely at him. He was dying and he knew it but right now he looked alive, face doing nothing to betray the insidious agent eating through his mind. He was focused entirely on her, even smiling faintly. She'd not seen him smile in days enough that she was grateful he could manage to do so once again.

And though she did not understand his words, Sam did not find herself wishing for Daniel's presence. She wanted to believe she knew what Jack was saying because it was a truth that did not have a language.

Sam reached for him again, kissing him. He slipped his hands around her, readily reciprocating. She had waited so long to feel him hold her like this, and when at last he did it was because it was their last chance to ever be together.

Sam halted their kiss this time, stopping to stand from the couch and pull him after her. If he didn't remember where to find his bedroom she would have to show him.

* * *

Sam would remember everything. The way Jack with care removed each article of her clothing, letting his fingers skirt and dance over skin he'd just exposed, from the look in his eyes seeing her as more beautiful than Sam had ever seen herself. She would remember that for a man with soldier's hands, his caress was gentle. She would remember that he was meticulous, leaving no part of her untouched. Her skin would remember every place his lips anointed, every path his fingertips blazed on her. She would remember how his tongue danced with hers, the waltz of old lovers and yet the excitement of the first meeting, touched with the desperation of the last encounter. She would remember disrobing him with slow and loving attention. She would remember every part of him she had touched. She would remember scars and birthmarks. She would remember how he had held still and let her see him, feel him, map him like she would the stars. She would remember how he had laid her back on the bed, and the way his weight had settled over her like coming home. She would remember their rhythm, how they danced and moved as one, a tempo theirs alone. She would remember him, and remember every second of regret that they had not done this until the eleventh hour. She would remember holding him to her after, and she would remember clinging and silently crying.

* * *

Sam rose from semi-consciousness, blinking as she fought to get her bearings. She didn't remember drifting off, disoriented as she fought to distinguish memory from dream.

She breathed in deeply and knew at once all that had been real. The scent of her and Jack together lingered in the sheets and the pillows, the thrill of his touch still electrifying her skin. She moved and the feel of the thin sheet gliding over her naked body awakened somatic memories, further chasing away dreams and half-realized fantasies.

Sam rolled on to her back to stare up at the ceiling. From the artificial lamp light slanting in through the blinds of the window she knew it was night. The last moment of time she remembered noting was early in the night hours, when between her and Jack's second and third time together she had weathered him through another seizure, worse than the previous attack in the living room.

Sam turned her head to look for him on the other side of the bed. She found him there, turned on his side facing her, eyes closed. Despite the grim shadows looming in every corner, Sam smiled to herself at the sight of Jack because love could make even an astrophysicist's thoughts silly.

Sam stared at him a minute, perfectly content to memorize his face, the lines of his nude body, remember him sleeping. She'd known him so long but there were still details to remember, always too many things to know and never enough time or recollection ability to keep them.

Sam stopped and frowned when she realized that he was too still even for sleep.

Sam rose to her elbow facing him and leaned closer. There was no stir of motion from him.

Her hand went to his face, thumb pressing against his lips that had hours ago been hers. No soft brush of warm breath against her skin, his chest motionless.

Sam's fingers moved to his neck, searching for a pulse... a search conducted in vain. She didn't know at what point in the night he'd slipped away, and she probably never would.

Sam dropped her hand to the scant distance of mattress between them. She laid there and looked a long time at Jack. He looked peaceful, untroubled and as childlike as a gray-haired Air Force colonel ever could. She was thankful he'd gone quietly when there were so many worse ways Jack O'Neill might have died. She had to be grateful that he'd been allowed to die on his own planet, peacefully in his own bed, no matter what kind of honor-driven desires of being killed in action he might have had. Jack was one of the few people who, more than anyone else, deserved to go in peace if only for the life of war he'd lived.

Sam reached up for her pillow and pulled it down to clutch it to her chest. Her body curled as she laid facing him and she cried. She cried for a lifetime, because she was his second in command and no one, once she left this room, would permit her the tears of a lover for him.

When her tears were spent and her soul broken and laid bare she wiped her eyes and looked once more at him. He remained utterly unmoved. He looked like death was nothing more than sleep where one forgot to breathe. Sam shifted toward him, bent down, and pressed her lips against his for one last kiss. In fairy tales her breath would have breathed life into him, by a nameless miracle brought him back, but this was far from happily ever after, and there was no spark of life.

After a heartbeat of stillness, refusal and inability to move, Sam got up and proceeded to arrange the bed sheet around him. She tucked it around his body with care, stray fingers darting out for parting touches, brushing her hand through his hair for all the times they'd worked together that she'd wanted to but never could.

When he was covered and arranged to her satisfaction, arrayed like a tragic Greek hero at last in his homeland to be laid to rest, she went about the dark room unrushed, gathering up her clothes and getting dressed. At warped, predawn moments, it felt like they were married and she was merely getting dressed for work while he slept. Her eyes drifted to his motionless form time and again. The minutes passed but still he looked like he was only sleeping, and yet Sam resisted the urge to check his vitals one more time to be sure because though her emotions were casting doubt, deep down she knew. Even in the infirmary, drugged up and unconscious, there was an energy to Jack O'Neill, a pulse of life those around him could practically feel. There was nothing now, only cold air and the too-loud sound of her own breathing.

Sam quietly left his room, went to the living room, and almost robotically began gathering up the ocean of paper scribed in an Ancient tongue. Daniel would want them. Once the grief and mourning passed and he could think of work again he'd want to have them, to make sure the last day of Jack's life had not been whiled away in waste.

With the stack of papers in her arms, Sam went to the front door of Jack's house. She turned to look around once more at his home, sealing a last vivid memory of its appearance and essence in her mind. She knew she would never feel comfortable again in a place the way she'd felt welcome and at ease here.

Sam stepped out into the night and looked for the car across the street that she knew would not have moved since last she saw it. As she expected the vehicle was still there, occupant still dutifully attentive to every movement from Jack O'Neill's residence.

Sam hugged the sheets closer to her, partly to hold Jack's legacy nearer to her as well as to fend off the cold, erased the last evidence of a bereaved partner from her expression, and started toward the parked car.

END


End file.
